


Quiver - An Archer's Tale (Arrow Rewrite)

by Garrick



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Green Arrow (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drug Use, F/M, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rewrite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-19 02:54:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15500745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrick/pseuds/Garrick
Summary: I can half-hear the muffles as the doctors reel out the long list of wounds through the glass door of the room. "20% of his body is covered in scar tissue. Second degree burns on the back and arms. X-rays showing at least 12 fractures that never properly healed." They sound shocked a man could survive all that, warn how much it could change someone.Similar things and worse could be happening out there right now to someone else, someone who can’t afford the healthcare my family can, someone who hasn’t got the training I have.I watch the flashing lights of a police cruiser zoom down the long street and towards the Glades.I have so much to do.------------------A rewrite of Arrow based on the transcript for the show's pilot and its original, unchanged script. Things start off very much the same as we've seen before but will rapidly diverge as the work progresses.





	1. The Coming Storm

I look out over my city through the window. It’s a jungle of concrete and glass. A thousand watching lights writhe and shift within, releasing an unnatural yellow glow that poison the air and smothers the stars and the sky. Billboards adorn the rooftops and sides of the buildings, advertising products that a lot of the residents can’t afford to buy

I’m downtown of course, away from the poorest areas of the city and with the best doctor’s money can get.

The Glades are visible in the distance. If you know what you’re looking for you can see its familiar sights on the edge of the horizon. The buildings there are a dimmer and shabbier reflection of the rest of the place. Closed-down factories and warehouses are just legible in its skyline, one, in particular, stands out to me.

I can half-hear the muffles as the doctors reel out the long list of wounds through the glass door of the room. "20% of his body is covered in scar tissue. Second degree burns on the back and arms. X-rays showing at least 12 fractures that never properly healed." They sound shocked a man could survive all that, warn how much it could change someone.

Similar things and worse could be happening out there right now to someone else, someone who can’t afford the healthcare my family can, someone who hasn’t got the training I have.

I watch the flashing lights of a police cruiser zoom down the long street and towards the Glades.

  _I have so much to do._

“Oliver.” The name rings out and I’m not used to it. It’s a faded memory that clings to me like smoke. It’s been so long since I’ve heard anyone but strangers say it that I’m lost in the sensation.

“Oliver.” It’s there again, the voice is familiar but not as much as it once was, not in this tone. It hits me like a rain of fists and I can already feel an ache in my chest.

I can see an image of her in the reflection before I turn. She’s there. Five years on and she’s there. The laugh lines are more defined, and her hair is cut down to the shoulders but she’s still the same person she always has been. My mother. The woman who brought me into this world.

I turn so I can see her fully, and she stands still, stares at the stranger stood in front of her. Her face is full of hesitation before I speak.

“Mom.” The chocked-out word is strange on the tongue, I’ve not used it in such a long time that it almost sounds foreign.

The corners of her mouth rise and her eyes are red and glistening. She steps forward and I move to meet her.

“Oh.” It’s a comforting sound, the one she’s used so many times when I was growing up. It followed the knee scrapes and pet deaths which are suddenly thrust into the forefront of my mind.

She tries to smile more widely before she’s overwhelmed by sobs, I think she came to the sudden realization that some wounds won’t heal so easily. “My beautiful boy.” She cries as she draws me into her arms.

She’s soft and delicate wrapped around me. I can smell her perfume; the kind Dad would always get her for her birthday. A stabbing reminder of him and his legacy. Something else undercuts it, a man’s smell. Wood and leather.  

I try to put my arms around her, but I’m scared. Scared of hurting her, scared I can’t do what’s necessary for my city.

Her sobs echo in the quiet of the hospital room, but I don’t cry with her. I try to, but I can only manage to think of how small she is in my arms. When did she become so small?

 

* * *

 

They’ve not asked me too many questions on the way home, Mom and the others. I’m thankful, I don’t want to have to lie to them. Not yet at least, I know I’ll have to at some point but for now, I just want to pretend.

She sits on the far seat on the other side of the car and watches me with a pained smile. I’m still and sat, I try to block out the once welcomed sound of the cameras loudly flickering and the shouts of my name as we come to the gatehouse. Fingers and fists clamor against the walls and windows of the car until we move again. I press my palms so hard into the leather of the seat that I’m scared I’ll leave a mark.

We’re into the grounds proper and all the sounds fade away. Only the humming of the car remains as we ride smoothly to the house.

I take a breath to prepare myself as we come to a stop. I’d resisted peeks out of tinted windows to wait for the real sights once I’m outside.

A blonde man is at the door before I can get to it. He puts his hand out, but I don’t take it. I just brush it aside gently, so he moves to help my mother after me. I take the opportunity to get to the back and by the trunk. There’s something in there that I’ll need.

It’s not long before he’s near me again. He opens the back and quickly dips his head to reach at the green crate furnished with the Mandarin script.

I stop him with a hand on his shoulder. Before I realize it, I’m imagining eight methods to break his collarbone.

“I’ve got it.” I try to say it softly as I grab at it with my other hand, but the voice is undercut with a thinly veiled edge.  He looks directly at me for a second before he lets his hands fall back down his sides.

“Yes, Mr. Queen.” He doesn’t look at my face again, just moves away from me as I make my way inside.

I’ll need to work on the voice.

 

* * *

 

Mom motions for me to follow her inside and I do. She leads me into the Scottish baronial style hall and I’m suddenly overwhelmed. I look across the room and further into the house, a thousand memories cross my mind before crystallizing in a single realization.

_I’m home. I’m finally home._

"Your room is exactly how you left it. I never had the heart to change a thing." I’m a little disappointed at that revelation like she never allowed herself to move on from me and I’m a weight that hung around her neck. But I think a little more about it. Maybe she just never lost hope in my return, thought I’d be back to pick up the broken pieces of my life and just continue being the son I was, playing the same games.

I hate to disappoint her, but I have things I need to do.

A man is stood in the welcoming area by the dark mahogany table. He wears a navy suit and a tie with little clocks on them. I watch the handles for a second to see If they move away from me, then I look at the man’s face. It’s familiar but distant.

“Oliver.” He says as he walks forward towards me, his accent is deep and English. "It's damn good to see you."

I struggle to place him for a moment and give him a look of confusion.

He puts his hand out like we’re meeting for the first time, it’s large and dark. I remember his name. “It’s Walter. Walter Steele.” He says, and I put my hand out to his hesitantly.

We shake, his grip is weaker than I remember it being on those weekday trips to Dad’s office. I can feel the resistance of his wedding ring against my fingers. I don’t remember him being married, what’s he doing here?

Mom chips in then, puts a comforting hand on my back, another on my arm. I look down at it and see a matching band there and I realize. “You remember Walter. Your father’s friend from the company.” I can smell that woody cologne again, this time along with the source.

He nods in affirmation and I nod back. He’s more than that now of course, but I can’t bring myself to feel too hurt about it. It’s good that Mom moved on in one regard at least. She’ll tell me when she’s ready.

I give Walter a quick look over before I move on. He’s a good man no doubt, but thoughts of him and my mother together are a little unnerving, a signal to all the things I have missed since I’ve been gone.

A woman is stood by the fire wearing the same blue dress and smile I’d seen her wear since I was young. She puts her arms out towards me and closes the distance to put my hands in them, they’re soft. She draws my hands into her a little so we’re closer and I can smell the bleach and cheap perfume on her.

“It’s good to see you, Raisa.” I tell her with a genuine smile. She smiles back and that just makes me smile wider. Raisa never had children of her own, but the maid was always a second mother to me and Thea, an extension of the family who has been here since I was born.

“Welcome home, Mr. Oliver.” Her English is slightly broken, the eastern-European accent she never managed to shed leaks through with every word. She looks over my shoulder and too my mother after she welcomes me home. “Mr. Merlyn phoned. He wants to join you for dinner. “

“Wonderful.” I hear my mother say behind me.

A door upstairs opens and I can hear it. Memories flood into my head and I’m moving without thinking to the bottom of the stairs ready to catch the little girl who used to come running from out the hallway and into my arms. Mom says something, but I can’t hear. I’m lost in the thought as she turns the corner.

Thea is there. She’s not a little girl anymore, the boyish looks are mostly gone but the jeans and sneakers remain. She stands at the top with a pained look on her face.

“Hey, sis.” I say smiling up at her.

She smiles back and takes off down the stairs like she’s done a thousand times before, I’m already there to catch her like I always used to.

She’s just in front of me before she stalls and stops, her body language is hesitant and delicate for a moment and I can see a fear in her eyes. Fear that she’ll say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing. I can see her mentally push past it before she hops down the last few steps towards me.

“I knew it, I knew you were alive.” She tells me and thrusts forwards with her arms around me. I let myself melt into the hug. 

Our relationship was always the one pure, uncomplicated thing in my life.  She puts her face into my shoulder and speaks so quietly that only I can hear: “I missed you.  Every day I missed you.”

I think back to the Island, lonely nights on the shore with the wind in my face and rain on my skin. Loved ones and cherished moments that urged me on to continue, to survive.

“You were with me the whole time.” I tell her.

She pulls away and smiles up at me through tears.

 

* * *

 

 

After the greetings, I’m grateful to be given space to myself. The rooms feel wider and warmer than they used to, my clothes feel heavier and tighter.

I take the shirt they gave me off, I’m sick of its clinical smell. The rest of the clothes follow as I move towards my bathroom, but I still can’t get rid of the smell of the hospital.

The tiles are cold and hard under my feet, like the rocks which dotted along the bottom of the island’s cliff-face.

I stand under the shower, turn it up until it hurts my skin a little. The hot ache hitting me feels like nothing I’ve felt in years.

Once my flesh is scrubbed raw I exit the shower and move over to the mirror.

Rubbing the condensation off I look forward and into my reflection. Water still drips over my skin in little rivers. Thick, short hairs cling to the top of my pale face until I moved them up and out the way with my hand.

After five years everything that was once familiar is now unrecognizable.  The face I see in the mirror is a stranger.

I study my body and see the wounds etched upon it. They’re a road map of five years of unforgotten suffering an indicator of the will, of the luck it took to survive.  As I trace the half-healed scars on my chest I can feel a ghostly series of cuts – they’re fast and almost subliminal – I’m inundated with flashes of torture ,blood, pain.

I close my eyes and exhale harshly. I can still hear the shower running

 

* * *

 

_The rooms of the Gambit shudder and sway in the dense Pacific storm. I can hear the waves crash and thunder crack above my head as I struggle out of my room and into the hallway._

_Dad’s stood by the ship’s radar with a member of the crew. Gus, I think his name is. They’re both worried and sullen looking._

_“The storm's a category 2. The captain's recommending, we head back.” Gus says with apprehension._

_“Is it really that serious?” he asks. There’s not much doubt in his voice but he looks a little rushed. Like a man who’s going to miss an important meeting._

_“When even the captain looks seasick, I take that as a bad sign.”_

_Dad takes a moment before replying with a sigh and a small nod._

_“All right. Inform the crew.” His words are sure and steady._

_The man moves dutifully, reseals his jacket before he’s out the door and back into the dark night. Dad stays stood and studies the radar silently_

_“_ _Are we in trouble?” I ask as I approach him._

_He turns and smiles before he points behind me. “One of us is.”_

_He doesn’t mean the storm._

_I turn to my cabin and see Sara in the door frame. She’s wearing a thin kimono with a pair of lace underwear._

_“Ollie? Where do you keep the bottle opener on this thing?”_

_I can see Dad smile as he looks to the floor. “I'll be there in a minute, Sara.”_

_She tightens the kimono and covers herself before she moves back into the room._

_He sighs and puts his arm around me, speaks softly with a half-laugh. “You know, son, that is not going to finish well for either of them or for you.”_

_He never shows his disappointment, doesn’t judge or condemn harshly, just offers soft words of wisdom. I love him for it._

 

* * *

 

I’m at the table by the door waiting for Tommy to arrive. I start thinking of what I’d say to him, how he would react to seeing me again, before I’m drawn in by a photo on the table. It’s of me and Dad. My 8th birthday.

Dad came back from a business trip abroad and showed up at my school to take me out early. We went to the theatre to watch old movies and ate too much popcorn. When we got back we were late for my party and Mom was livid. She didn’t stay like that long, Dad had a way of cheering everyone up again. When he spoke, you felt like you and him were the only two people in the world.

The door swings open and I’m back in reality. My best-friend stands in the doorway for a moment and looks me over, a damp heat filters in through the door behind him.

“What did I tell you? Yachts suck.”

“Tommy Merlyn.” I walk up to him and I’m drawn into what I hope will be the last of today’s hugs.

“I missed you, buddy.” He says heartfeltly as we move over into the dining room.

 

* * *

 

It’s hot in the dining room. Candles flicker on the long wooden table, they sway with the breaths and speech of those sit around them. There’s a low sound of rain hitting the windows in the next room I can hear under the evening chatter.

Tommy looks over to me to see if I’m following his conversation. I’m not, but I pretend to. Everything is at 100 miles per hour with him.

Thea is sat opposite me, calm and quiet. She studies my face carefully and I smile to try to dissuade her from asking me if I’m okay.

Mom and Walter are at the end of the table having a separate conversation as some food is planted in front of us. I look down at the forks in front of me and I think about how long it’s been since I’ve used one.

Knives are another matter.

The waiters leave folded napkins near the plates, but I don’t remember the correct etiquette. There are a cluster of other tiny shocks as things are served and strangers move around me, I can feel these little surges in my stomach that gnaw at my demeanour.

I try to bite a little at one of the pieces of meat on my plate but it’s too rich. I can taste almost every grain of salt. It makes me want to gag.

I take a breath and try to listen to Tommy, but I’m already planning out exits, how many people are between me and my room. 

“Ok. What else did you miss? Super bowl winners... Giants, Steelers, Saints, Packers, Giants again. A black president, that's new. Oh, and "Lost," they were all dead...I think.”

I nod and plan out some sort of witty response. Something the old me would say in reply. But before I can Thea raises her head and looks at me.

“What was it like there? On the island?”

The words on all sides of the table die out and the room is quiet. I can feel their stares, hear the rain a little more clearly in the silent tension of the room as they look at me for a response. Each face silently waits as I’m reminded of harsh winds on a stony seafront.

I speak, only to say a single word: “Cold.”

Tommy can sense my unease and dutifully changes the subject. “Tomorrow, you and me, we're doing the city. You've got a lot to catch up on. “

Mothers eye’s go to him and then back to me. She smiles thinly and nods with approval. “That sounds like a great idea.”

Walter fills her glass with a red so dark it almost looks black, I watch it gurgle as it fills. The flow makes me uneasy.

He’s sat in a seat next to the very end of the table. Where Dad used to sit. I’m reminded of my obligations and I plan out some steps in my head for future reference, things I would need to do before I worked.

A day out would help me better understand what I’m dealing with, how far the rot has spread, how much I need to cut away to cure the city. I would need things though, things I don’t have access to right now.

Walter fills his own glass then and I speak before he has a chance to drink. “Good. Then I was hoping to come by the office.”

He watches me with curiosity before he replies as if the statement was directed at him personally. “Well, there's plenty of time for that. Queen Consolidated isn't going anywhere.”

I nod understandingly. My actions previously hadn’t highlighted me as the type of person that a guy like Walter would want hovering around him in board meetings.

Someone’s approaching from behind, I can hear their footsteps on the wooden floor, I see Raisa’s reflection in the shine of the candelabra. I watch her for a second as she carries a bowl of fruit for dessert.

I see it happening before it does. Loose carpet curled up slightly by busy feet. The woman isn’t going to be able to stop in time to see it.

Reflexes kick in and I’m already out of the chair. One hand is on her back restoring her balance, the other catches the bowl just as it leaves her hands. The movements are fluid, precise. Too much so for a normal man.

The others are staring in silence, Raisa props herself back upright and I place the bowl gently back into her hands.

“Oh, I am so sorry, Mr. Oliver…”

“Ni dlya kogo ne volnuites, Raisa.” The words slip out before I can contain them, silent staring faces turn stunned and agape.

Tommy is the first one to break the moment’s silence with an excited question. “Dude, you speak Russian?”

I’m back in my seat before the next question comes. I grip the side of the table so hard that I’m scared it’ll crack.

Walter’s there next. He speaks from my father’s chair. “I didn't realize you took Russian at college, Oliver.”

“I didn't realize you wanted to sleep with my mother, Walter.” I regret the words as soon as I say them. Walter is a good man but I’m irritable, I don’t want to be in this room right now.

They’re silent again as the tension returns, Tommy fills his mouth with meat to avoid having to talk. Mom looks at me with hurt in her eyes. Then she looks at Thea with disappointment.

“I didn't say anything.”

“She didn't have to.” The words are a rush from my mouth, Mom isn’t angry. She doesn’t frown or scowl, just nods in acknowledgment before she speaks through obvious inner struggle.

“I was -- I wanted to find the right time to -- to tell you.  Oliver... Walter and I are married.” Walter reaches his hand across to hers halfway through the speech, and I see those flickers of love in their eyes. Moms are undercut by an old sadness that is still raw. “I don’t want you to think that we, either of us, did anything to disrespect your father...”

Walter speaks again to save mom the explanation that is obviously torturing her. “We both believed that Robert, like you, was, uh, well, gone.”

I can feel the table shift a little as I grip underneath it. The hushed whispers of the waiters are there by the door behind me. I’m suddenly conscious of a red heat all over my body, my hands come off the table and I can feel them shaking a little.

“It's fine.” I lied. Mom and Thea see through it obviously, but I know they’ll give me time to get used to it all. Better to leave before I hurt anyone else.

I stand to leave, just managing not to clash with the table as I do so. The old clothes from my closet feel thick and suffocating and I struggle to breath as I ask if I can leave.

Mom nods and I start to walk. Tommy says something but I’m not listening, I try to focus on the rain which beats down all the heavier.

I pat him on the shoulder as I pass down into the hallway.

There’s a portrait of Dad hanging on the wall near the stairs. I feel his unmoving eyes watching me as I pass.

I’m back in my room and the heat is there again, but worse this time. It consumes most of my body. I rush to take my tight clothes off before I’m strangled, and I open the window to let in some air.

I can hear the beginnings of a storm crack outside as the rain splashes against my face. It’s a cool relief for a now pounding head, but it does nothing to stop it.

It builds and builds until I can barely feel myself anymore.

 

* * *

 

Walter Steele closes his bedroom window on the storm that rages outside.  Thunder and lightning snap muffled through the glass.  He turns to his wife who’s sat in their bed and his thoughts instantly drift to her son.

“This sudden interest in the company…  it’s one of the first things he wants to do now that he’s back?”

She’s looked hurt since supper but Walter can still see the cogs move under the pain. She takes a moment to think before she replies: “Maybe he craves something normal...”

“When has taking an interest in Queen Consolidated been “normal” for Oliver?” He jokes with a smile.

She smiles back, hopeful. “Being shipwrecked might have given him a sense of perspective, made him realise the weight that his father’s legacy leaves on his shoulders.” 

Walter’s edgy about another mention of Robert. The long-lost friend who’s shadow he finds himself fighting every day. “I’ll arrange to call the lawyers tomorrow, now that Oliver is back from the dead we’ll need to deal with the legalities of ---” Suddenly there’s a loud banging. 

Moira’s out of bed immediately, the frantic urgency makes her look twenty years younger.  Her face is marked with worry as she throws on a robe rises and bursts out into the hallway.

Walter follows just behind as she walks quickly to Oliver’s doorway and presumably the source of the noise.

She raises her hand to knock, when -- BANG!  The sound is there again.  She’s startled. “Oliver?!” She opens the door and walks through into the room.

Inside it is dark and empty.  Oliver’s gone.  The window is open.  The storm blows the shutters, banging it loudly against the frame again.

Moira wrestles with the shutters and Walter moves over to assist her. The wood and glass are slippery and wet under their fingers, but they get it shut.

Walter begins to bundle some linen to dry up the puddle of rain but Moira stays standing by the window as if transfixed.

“Walter, what’ that?” She points out and into the darkness of the night.

He joins his wife at the window again and stares into the yard. The well-manicured lawn leads into the woods behind the house.  He sees nothing but the black shrubbery in the distance until - 

Lightning forks overhead and illuminates the garden clearly for a moment.

Underneath the thick foliage the colour of flesh can be seen. A figure is curled up on the ground, sleeping like a man who’s lived in the wild for five years.  The figure is restless. 

 

* * *

 

_“One... two...” There’s a distant roar of thunder that interrupts Sara as she recites the numbers like a child. She waits for the rumble to end before she announces excitedly: “Oooo...  It’s getting closer.”_

_I’m at the end of the bed and by the minibar, the champagne glasses in my hand clink together gently as I uncork the bottle of wine. “That’s not very scientific.” My words are playful._

_“What would you know about science, Mr. Ivy League Drop Out?” Hers are too. She smiles at me with a challenge._

_I manage to get the bottle open and pour out large glasses for me and her. Then I turn and leave the bottle where it lays, bring the two glasses in hand as I move over to the bed._

_She accepts one in hand and I take the opportunity to bring that hand back over my heart in feigned outrage as I lean over her. “I happen to know a lot about science”._

_“I know about... fermentation.” I motion with the other hand, the glass I’m holding is so full that it almost spills on her and I’m almost sad it doesn’t._

_I stare into her eyes and lower my face to hers until our lips meet. “I know about biology.”_

_She scotches up at the last word, obviously her thoughts are elsewhere._

_“Laurel's gonna kill me.” She puts her glass on the table and her hands go over her head with worry “Oh, she's so gonna kill me.”_

_I watch and grin, think nothing of the sister I left ashore and focus on the one in my bed. “Your sister will never know.” I spell out each word slowly so that she can understand and I move my head to hers again until we’re close enough to kiss._

_She move forward a little but I block her off, move my hand under her arm and trip her onto the bed with a gentle nudge._

_“Come here.” She laughs as I move on top of her. Laughs until there’s another strike of thunder. This one louder than before._

_“Ok, that one was really close.”  She’s worried._

_“Sara, relax. We're gonna be fine.” I speak into her neck as I kiss it._

_I hear the wine glasses smash on the floor before I begin to feel the harsh rock of the boat turn into a full tip. We’re both thrown from the bed as the cabin suddenly flips._

_Sara’s screams as she falls, and it echoes in the room, just loud enough to be heard over the monstrous creak of metal as the pressure of the boat shifts drastically. I struggle by what used to be the bar, broken glass litters the wall I’m clinging to for balance, I look at my bloody hands for a moment before I look up._

_Sara is by the door, faint and weak. The screaming has stopped but she struggles to hold on to something._

_I try to reach out but she’s gone before my hands can get to hers. There’s a rush of water and she’s gone. It’s like she was never even there._

_“Sara?” I think I hear her scream again in the bowels of the ship but I can’t make it out with the crashing of the waves or the monstrous creaking of the ship._

_“Sara!” I try to shout again but I’m submerged now. I can feel the rush of water all around me as its pressure drags me from the room._

_It feels like an eternity under the water. I clamour blindly in the blackness of the deep, nothing guides me but instinct. A desperate need to survive and get to Sara._

_The waves shift, and I’m pushed harshly again. I can feel the water break over me as I struggle to the surface._

_My first gasps of air are into salty lungs, I gag and spit up as much water as I can but my mouth just fills again as another wave crashes over me._

_I’m out. I don’t know how but I’m out._

_“Oliver!” I can barely hear my name over the storm. It’s coming from behind, a voice in the darkness._

_I try to turn towards it, but I’m dragged under a little. Another wave hits me like a fist and pushes me aside. I drift for a moment before a pair of strong hands grab at my shirt and pull me up out of the water._

_My eyes sting and I can barely see. Can just make out the outline of the two men in front of me. “Gus? Dad?”_

_I cough more water, I can feel the harsh ache of the salt as it scrapes the inside of my throat. I take a moment to catch my breath before I can think._

_“No! No!” I’m quick to turn back to the ocean again but they drag me to the bottom of the life raft. “No! Dad, she's out there!” My eyes are stinging so much that I can barely cry._

_I still can’t see him, just feel one of the hands on my back smooth and pat me gently. “She's not there, son.”_

_“Sara!” I shout again impotently, look across the water blindly. In the mist of my eyes I can just make out some fluorescent lights that shimmer in the near-distance. They’re there for a few moments before they fade into the deep._

_Dad pulls me closer, clings on to me with all the power he can before he tells me what I already know deep down: “She's gone.”_

 

* * *

 

Lightning crackles above as Walter and his wife run down the garden and to the edge of the woods.

He stumbles, barefoot on the damp grass and falls behind. Moira is already at the treeline before he can get there. He approaches hesitantly as she stands over her son’s shivering body.

“Oliver!” There’s no response.

She puts her hands out towards him slowly. As soon as they make contact with skin Oliver wakes with a start. His hand shoots out quickly and grabs hers on instinct, and she’s flipped onto the floor of the woods, the sounds of snapping twigs can be heard with the wet thud of her body connecting.

Walter makes to rush at his step-son but his hand is already around her throat.

“OLIVER!” His deep voice is cut with immense worry, bounces off the nearby trees.

“OLIVER!” Moira shouts again, it’s rough and hoarse with the pressure on her neck. Suddenly Oliver’s eyes snap wide and he releases her quickly. A look of sickness and horror overtake him as he discovers what he was doing. 

Moira sits up and coughs harshly, breaths the warm wet air in haggard breaths. Walter moves to her urgently and takes her in his arms.

He looks to Oliver and he’s still as a stone, dangerous. Water cascades down the younger man’s pain filled face as he stumbles with words. “I’m sorry ... I’m so sorry.” 

Moira studies him for a second with shock and confusion. 

Oliver’s eyes well with pain but Walter cannot tell if he’s crying in the severe downpour.

“What happened there -- it was horrible.”

“I know, son.  But you’re home now.”  She walks on her knees to Oliver, slowly. He nudges back until she puts her to arms out and he allows her to help him to his feet. Walter watches as they embrace tenderly.

The rain continues to fall...


	2. The Crossfire

Thea Queen watches through her bedroom window as the limo carrying Dr. Lamb pulls up the drive. She doesn’t know what he’s here for, nobody will tell her.

She heard the waiters talking at breakfast, something happening with Oliver in the night. She worried hard for her brother and searched the house for him, but there are over 87 rooms and in those she could visit before her friends arrived before school her Mother, Walter and Oliver were nowhere to be found.

She listens to her friends behind her, they babble like usual.

“I read on the internet that he had frostbite. Did his toes fall off?”

Another voice is there replying: “Your brother was hot, but there’s no way I could get with a guy with no toes.”

Thea ignores Margo and Niva. Just continues to stare out the window. Her face is etched with worry.

A small hand comes to her shoulder and she turns to see Niva’s smiling face. “What’re you so freaked about? It’s a good thing... he’s alive.”

She doesn’t reply. Her face is anxious. “We’ve gotta leave before someone comes in–"

Margo is near her then. “Not ‘til you calm down.” She pauses, and Thea can see an idea formulate in her mind. She dislikes it already. “Roll call. What do we have?”

Niva responds by reaching into her knapsack. The ditzy girl fumbles slightly as she pulls out two bottles of pills – "My brother’s Ritalin and my mom’s Valium.”

“Screw that.” Margo pulls out a bottle of her own, snakes her thin arm out of her purse. “Thank you, Daddy’s ACL tear. Go with the Roxies.“

Before Thea can say anything Margo pops out a pill and starts crushing it into a powder on the top of Thea’s desk.

She rolls up a fifty-dollar bill and puts it to her nose. Then there’s a loud snort before she turns back to Thea and holds the bill out to her. “Your turn.”

Thea hesitates for a moment, then she starts to feel a low ache in her body. An unsatisfied itch that needs scratching.

She takes the rolled-up bill her friend used to snort the powder and leans her head down in the same practiced manner.

 

* * *

 

The storm’s gone now and I stand in my bathroom. I can already feel the effects of the pills on my body. There’s a sluggishness that dulls every sensation.

I take a moment to feel things out before I decide I can’t be like this. Not today. I need a clear mind so I can make clear plans.

I move over to the sink and shove my fingers down my throat. The gagging is a temporary feeling before the medication Lamb gave me is out of my body and sticks to the inside of the sink.

I brush my teeth and wash my face roughly before I move to the bedroom proper. I walk past a bed I didn’t sleep in before getting changed.

I think about the last time I was in the room, in that bed. It was before the Island. I can almost feel the soft hugs and rehearsed fumblings with a woman I know now has every right to want me dead.

 

* * *

 

“Where are you going?” Mom’s already behind me as I move forward down the hallway.

I stop in my tracks and turn towards her, she gives me a look which I confuse for fear as I approach her. I creep towards her slowly and kiss her gently on the cheek before I reply: “I promised Tommy I would go out with him today.”

She stands and accepts the kiss, plays with her long collar where I know the bruises linger underneath. I can feel the shame and horror encroach upon me when she speaks again.

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

I pause for a second before I speak, play out like I’m thinking what I’ve already decided over before I answer. “You were the one who said it was a ‘Wonderful idea’. Besides, I’m not feeling well enough to get into any real trouble” I smile near the end, the kind of smile the old me would give. She looks slightly happier at his appearance and I take the opportunity to finish my words. “I just need to stretch my legs, feel the lay of the land.”

“Just take things steady.” She finally says as she considers me. She pecks me on the cheek and before I turn to leave I can see a sadness in her eyes.

I can hear her pull a phone out of her pocket as I open the front door to leave. She shouts: “And give me a call if anything happens.”

 

* * *

 

Tommy’s McLaren cruises through the streets of the city and down into the glades.

There’s a slow shift as we delve further into this quarter of the city, the buildings become shabbier and more run down the deeper we get in. Restaurants and banks vanish and are replaced with pawn shops and closed-down multinationals.

We’ve stopped at a set of traffic lights and get dirty looks from ragged looking groups as we sit in the car. Hardly inconspicuous.

We’re there for a few more moments and Tommy is already looking a little uneasy. I don’t blame him, he has reason to be.

A tourism board on an abandoned housing complex is just visible underneath a thick tarp. It reads: “Starling City is a STAR City...” A single yellow star shoots across the width of the piece.

“Your funeral blew.” Tommy tells me. I look over to him with a questioning glance and he smiles at having got my attention. “Unimaginative toasts.  So much crying.” The last word is stretched out dramatically.

He puts a hand to his chest as he watches me for a second, then turns back to look at the street: “I promised myself if you were ever found alive on a deserted island I would be honest with you about it.  “    

I laugh at the thought of Tommy bored out of his mind at his best friend’s funeral, my funeral. It feels weird thinking that, but I suppose it would to any normal person.

He waits for a reaction. These are the games we play together, friendly snipes across the car. I take a moment to think through a reply.

“Get lucky?” I ask with a knowing smile that’s only half-forced. The car turns and we’re down a familiar street.

He laughs as he speaks: “Fish in a barrel. They were so sad and huggy.” I voice faked protests with a groan before he continues. “I’m counting on another target-rich environment for your welcome home bash. “

I’m almost shocked at that, then I remember I’m speaking to Tommy Merlyn. “My what?”

He pulls gently up and outside a building that’s full of memories. His words are forceful and laced with excitement as he speaks again: “Ollie, we partied when you got your license, when you got off for decking that paparazzi scumbag...  You came back from the dead.  This calls for something so epic, the word ‘party’ shouldn’t even apply.”

I don’t respond, just look out the window again and I see a large industrial complex, its metal coating is rusted and worn. A faded sign reads ‘Queen Industrial Inc.’.

The last time I was here I was still a young child, Starling was the industrial powerhouse of the north-west with the Glades at its centre. That was before the recession of the 1990’s, before there was a giant sucking sound to the south and the manufacturing jobs all went.

A lot of people lost their jobs, became desperate. Desperate people do things normal people don’t.

_It wasn’t fair to bring Tommy here._

I can’t look at him directly, I feel so bad for dragging him down here, not far from where it happened.

My focus is drawn to the main building, it’s large and wide, a mix of concrete and metal. The rest of the complex is surrounded by burned out tenements with boarded-up windows.  A lot of the cheap wooden boards are smashed inwards but those that are left are furnished with graffiti. 

“City’s gone to crap.” Tommy finally says, his words have an edge to them. “Your dad sold his factory just in time. Why’d you want to drive through this neighborhood anyway?”

There’s a “FOR SALE” sign in front of one of the more dilapidated tenement buildings, I look it over. Make a mental note of its location.

I turn to Tommy again and he pulls the car out onto the damp asphalt.

“No reason.” I lie.

 

* * *

 

We’re back by the edge of the Glades again and we grab something to eat. I take a mineral water and a sandwich. I’m still not used to all of this food and drink being so readily available.

When we leave the diner I look about me, the place is less stark, more gentrified. A couple of police are walking their beats and there are fewer homeless people on the sidewalk. Those things aren’t a coincidence.

We pass a park and I can smell the wet leaves through old iron railings. The ferns and spruces are a reminder of denser forests, different but similar. Many things are.

Tommy badgers me on the way back to the car, like he had during the meal. He’s like an excited child. “What’d you miss most?  Steaks at the Palm?  Drinks at The Station?  Meaningless sex?”

I don’t have to think before I respond, it’s almost an instinct, an underlying memory that continuously gnaws from within me. “Laurel.”

Tommy reacts badly, he opens the swinging door of the car as he looks at me with scepticism. “So, you miss being punched in the face?”

We’re both in and the car’s started. He watches the road and he looks sullen.

“Everyone is so happy you’re alive.  And you want to see the one person who isn’t?”

I don’t respond, just look into the distance in silence, think about the people who didn’t make it back. He sighs, then he shrugs, then he guns the engine.

We’re both sure this is a bad idea…

 

* * *

 

 

The staff of the CNRI staff are beleaguered, they have too many cases and not enough funding or lawyers to cover them. An unending queue is always out of their door, renters with cases against their landlords, employees with cases against their bosses.

Dinah Laurel Lance is stood by the water cooler and argues with her supervisor: “C’mon, Eric, if we can’t win a class action against a land baron who’s engaged in mortgage fraud and predatory lending on a massive scale, we’re not fit to call ourselves a legal aid office.”

His face reddens slightly as he speaks, he’s still not used to his lawyers answering back: “And if we go bankrupt after he buries us in the courts, we won’t be a legal aid office.” He sighs and rubs a bead of sweat from his face, a man clearly weighed down by heavily workload. “You’ve got 48 hours to get something concrete. If not I’m rolling this whole thing up and you’re back on the Dawkins job with the absentee landlords.“

He exits and moves back to his office, swaying slightly as he shifts his rotund body through the door. A couple of other members of staff look to Laurel with shock, others with wide grins. Laurel herself looks over to her best friend Joanna.

She moves over to her and sits on her desk. “Okay, you might’ve called that one.”

The woman responds with sass. “It’s fun being your friend.  I get to say ‘I told you so’ a lot.”

An attorney walks by them both, then another almost gets by before Laurel stops him.

“Where’s Judge Grell on our discovery motion?”

The attorney waits for a moment, his face is young and worried.

“Not where we need him to be.”

“What about the forensic accountant?”

Joanna answers then, giving the junior attorney some relief. “Same story:  Needs more time, needs more money. Both things we haven’t got-” She pauses suddenly and looks over Laurel’s shoulder before she adds: “Scratch that, maybe we could get some of the latter.”

Laurel turns and there’s a sudden, impossible sight of a ghost across the hallway and by the door.  Tommy stands behind him, waving gently, an awkward look on his face.  

Laurel just stares.  This coming conversation... this coming confrontation... has been five years in the making.

Joanna steps to Laurel’s side, she grabs her wrist gently.

“You gonna introduce us?”

 

* * *

 

She walks alongside me, not as close as she used to, justifiably. There’s a chasm of silence – of awkwardness between us. An unspoken understanding of the things that happened.

I try to break it with an obvious remark. “You went to law school.  Just like you said you would.”

“Yes.  Everyone’s proud.” There’s anger in the voice, to the average person it would sound like frustration but to me it seems like hatred. Her hands ball up as we continue to walk and I’m more than willing to take any beating she plans on giving me.

There’s an attempt by me to change the subject, move over to something I can manage, something I can work with. “I heard a little about the case on the way here. Adam Hunt.  Are you sure you want to mess with someone like him?” The last sentence is shot through with concern, I still care about her.

“It’s my job, but has anything like that interested you? Why are you here?“

A million things flow through my head, I’m too much of a coward to tell her that I don’t know why I’m here. I’m too much of a coward to tell her some small sliver of me wants us to pretend nothing happened, but that the rest of me is so broken after Sara, after Dad, after the island that it could never happen.

I settle on the easiest answer, I know it can never be enough to undo what I did, but there is little else I can do. I stop walking and speak again. “To apologize.  To tell you it was my fault.  To ask you, please, don’t blame her –“

She snaps at that, her face hardens and the words come out in a rush. “Blame her for what?  Being 18?  Falling under your spell?  How could I possibly blame her for doing the same things I did?”

I try to answer, try to tell her she should hate me, try to tell her that no apology could ever be good enough. “Laurel, I –”

“She was my sister!  I couldn’t be angry at her because she was dead.  And I couldn’t grieve because I was so angry at her. That’s what happens when your sister dies while screwing your boyfriend.” I brace myself to be struck with a slap, a punch, but nothing comes. She looks to the pavement in anger then she looks back and directly into my eyes.

“We buried an empty coffin.  Because her body is at the bottom of the ocean.  Where you left her.” The last sentence is pointed, accusatory.

I’m obviously pained, and she can see it. Images of a grieving father are etched into my mind, pictures of Laurel sobbing as her fists land against a bare wall. “I know it’s too late to say it... I know nothing I do could ever bring her back, or mend the lives my actions broke… But I am sorry. “

Her eyes are ice. She speaks harshly and slowly so I properly understand every word she says. “I’m sorry too.  I had hoped you would rot in hell for a whole lot longer than five years.”

It’s a dagger in the heart, sharp and well-aimed to do the most damage. Laurel turns to go back inside, Tommy is standing just by the doorway to the building. I can hear their words clearly over the passing traffic.

“How did you think this was going to go, Tommy?”

“About like that.”

She moves inside and I watch her until she vanishes.

 

* * *

 

Tommy is driving, out of the glades and towards the downtown part of the city.  I just sit in the passenger’s seat of his sports car in quiet contemplation. My chest stings, so does my head. I want the day to be over as soon as possible.

Tommy is watching me. I can feel the heat of his stare. He puts on a smile and tries to cheer me up.

“Okay, so we got that out of the way.  Good call.  Now we’re ready to make up for lost time.  If you’re not too sick of fish I suggest we go find some leggy models and eat sushi off them.  What do you sa– “

I begin to formulate an excuse for leaving already. I know I don’t need one but I don’t want to disappoint Tommy by having changed too much. He’s my only true friend and I don’t want to lose him, what I’ve done to him today hasn’t helped that, there’s still a discomfort behind the eyes.

Before I can finish the thought there’s a flash, I blink my eyes and a van appears in the window. It barrels towards us and I brace myself for an impact before Tommy slams his foot down on the brakes.

The car spins out and I can already smell the burning of tyres, hear the sound of brakes that screech.

We come to an abrupt stop as the car hits a concrete pole on my side. My window smashes almost instantly and I’m covered in glass. -- the van screeches to a harsh halt and blocks us in.

Then I realise what’s happening. I take the moment to try to struggle but the seatbelt is jammed. I look over Tommy and he struggles in a daze.

I hear the van door sliding open before I turn to it. Two men in dark clothes and grotesque masks jump out. They’re wearing body armour and carrying silenced semi-automatics. Movements are made with military precision, securing both doorways of the car with weapons raised.

Army boots crush shattered glass as the guy on my side moves towards me. Just out of my reach. I hear Tommy’s door open and I turn to him in a panic only to see his head disappear in a black bag.

I make a large tug on the belt again and I can almost feel it break, then a silenced shot rings out and there’s something embedded into my neck. I reach up and can feel the dart but it’s too late, I’m already losing consciousness.

I try to slow my heart-rate but there’s another sound just beyond the van. A bystander gets out of his car -- rushes towards what he assumes is an accident, rushes to help.

A third masked man leans out of the van and there’s a torrent of gunfire. The bystander’s body slams backwards and hard into the pavement.

I can feel arms around me then, but I’m too weak to resist, I’m pulled towards the van and over the broken glass.  In the blurry malaise I see the figure of a teen cradling his father in his arms with a long scream: “DAD!”

As I’m thrown into the van a hood is forced over my head.

Enclosed in blackness I weakly say a single word:

“No….”

_So weak. So unprepared._


	3. Questions and Answers

_I can feel the frigid waters with the hand of my hanging arm. I wave it gently through the liquid and whisper the word I’ve been whispering for as long as I can remember._

_“Sara.”_

_I take a breath and the sea air fills my lungs, feels almost like smoke._

_I look into the dark ocean and watch as the waters chop against the life raft. The patterns of the waves are enthralling, feels like they’re drawing me in._

_A hand grabs at my shoulder and I remember I’m not alone.  I turn to look at Dad and he looks right in to my eyes._

_“She’s out  there—” I tell him defiantly._

_“No, Oliver, she’s not –” His words are deep and slow. I don’t believe him, try to turn and look further over the side in the hopes I could catch some glimpse._

_“I’ve got to –“_

_Dad grabs me, puts his arms around me roughly to stop me from moving. Within a few seconds I stop struggling and his grip turns from restrain, to a soft embrace._

_“She’s gone Oliver.  It’s been nearly a day in freezing water. She’s gone.”_

_I let myself sag in his arms, the struggle is tiring, and I surrender with a whisper. “Please God...  No.  It’s all my fault.  It’s my fault. “_

_Tears well in my eyes as I imagine her face, hard and icy under the pressure of the sea. Another face comes to me and I close my eyes, I can feel the tears run down._

_I sit and sob quietly for a time before dad lets go and moves away from me._

_Dad and Gus are on the other side of the lifeboat, checking our meager rations._

_“A few days if rationed.  Maybe.” Dad says, he looks at the other man with a question:  “Best guess?”_

_The younger man replies, rubs his chin with a hand as he talks. “With this current? These stars? We’re maybe a week from the Paracel Islands.”_

_There’s an air of quiet despair as we all realise our situation is precarious. I shift my weight over to sit up straight, the dim light rigged above us sways even more so in the movement. Dad turns to me and then sits by my side._

_His arm moves to my shoulder as he levels himself with me._

_“We’re going to get through this, Oliver.” His words are assured, like a man who thinks he’s betting on a sure thing._

_I’m not convinced. The pile of reserves looks smaller and smaller every time I look at it. “Really? ‘Cause the no food and no landfall for a week says otherwise.”_

_He speaks again, but it doesn’t sound like he’s talking to me. The words are to himself: “We’ll make it.  We have to make it.”_

_He removes his arm from my shoulder and looks to the floor with a shake of the head. “I thought I’d have more time.”_

_I bring my hands to his face and ask him, “For what?”_

_He studies me, looks at me like he’s seen a ghost. There are hints in his eyes, a mess of fear, of relief, of realisation. It’s almost a manic look._

_His sentences are interrupted by deep breaths. “I started with little, Oliver. But the more I earned, the more I paid. I paid with my soul. Queen Consolidated’s success was built on the pain and suffering of others. Pain and suffering I had a hand in creating. I didn’t help our city. I failed it.”_

_“Dad, don’t say that.  You’re... you’re a good man.” I wrap my arms around him, but he doesn’t wrap his around me, just looks off into the distance._

_“You don’t know me, son. Not really. You don’t know the truth.”_

_I shiver against him in the cool wind, the three of us float gently atop the endless black sea..._

 

* * *

 

“Mr. Queen...?”

I’m snapped back to reality as the hood is yanked from my head. I shake off the grogginess as I attempt get my bearings.

My eyes adjust to the dim light and I see we’re in an abandoned warehouse. It’s empty and desolate except for a few pallets and the abductors, Tommy is tied and dumped on a pallet, unmoving.

I struggle in my seat and I can feel the wooden chair creak underneath me. My arms are tied tightly behind me.

“Mr. Queen?” The voice is there and harsher than before. A single strike hits me in the chest, knocks some air out of me.

I look up through and see the striker, he wears the same mask one of the gunmen did earlier and is flanked by two of his comrades.

The man who I assume is the leader stands over me. He hits me again but it’s a dull thud against prepared flesh.

There’s the sound of a Velcro strap being undone and then there’s a shiny glint in the darkness, the leader waves his knife side to side in front of my face as if to make a point.

“I’ve got some questions. And you’re gonna give me some answers.” He says the words before he presses the end of the blade to my chest. “Did your father survive the accident?”

I say nothing. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction. I’m going to make them work for the information they’re paid to get. A small rebellion that gives me the zeal I need to bury the hits.

He rakes the blade slowly across my front, cuts into the shirt and into the skin beneath.  I can feel the blood seep and drip down my skin as I grit my teeth.

The masked man looks at me, I can see the glints of his eyes, the reflection of the dim light. He’s angry. The other two shift their weight with unease.

The words are slower this time but are said with a greater force. “Did your father survive?  Did he tell you anything?”

_What are they talking about? Do they know?_

I try to stretch out the time, get them to talk a little more, but they seem like they’re in a rush.

Again, I don’t answer. I can take it. I can take more of it.

I’m ready for him to cut another slice when the knife is moved up. 

The cold blade is now above my collar, dances on my neck. Overhangs the jugular. 

It’s a shout now. The aggravation in his voice is at peak. This is not a man used to being denied. “Well?”

I hold my tongue for a moment, think about whether they’re willing to kill me. If not, whether they’d hurt Tommy. I look over to him and he’s still not moving.

_I can’t take that chance._

“Yes. He did.” The words come out steely and I give him a cold and hard look. Directly into his eyes.

I can sense his smile underneath the mask. He’s happy now he’s got what he wanted. “That’s more like it.” 

He looks to his partners and raises his arms in triumph, then he looks back to me – I smile at him, dryly through the pain.  I need him to drop his guard, get a distance from a swipe of the knife.

He laughs at my smile, kneels so he’s at my level, the knife at my chest again. “And what did he tell you, Mr. Queen?”

My grin is wider then, I speak with laughter. “He told me I’m going to kill you.”

They look confused for a moment. Look at each other before the leader laughs with me, drops the knife to his side. The others join in on the laughter. “You must’ve lost your fucking mind on that island...”

I drop the smile instantly. Look over to the furthest gunman, to his weapon. The same one which gunned down that bystander.

I nod and list off the characteristics quickly. “Galil 5.56 mm, looks like the South African variant, weighs about 4 kilos, rate of fire is up to 750 rounds a minute.”

He stands slowly and looks at me, his laugh fades as he jostles the rifle against his shoulder. I stare him down: “The man carrying the biggest gun is always the coward. You, I’ll have to hunt. You’ll be the one to die last, with an empty clip and heavy breath.”

They’re all confused now, the others are still laughing though. Good. That’s how I want them. I turn to the other lackey. His weapon is shorter, flexing in his big arms. “You think you’re faster than me.   You’re wrong.  You’ll get some shots off, but I’ll kill you second.”

All the laughter dies down then.  Replaced by anxious chuckles. 

I look to the main masked kidnapper then: “And you, I’m going to kill you first.” The words are venomous, they’re spat out.

His eyes still grin, he’s still chuckling under the mask. He shouldn’t be.

“You’re delusional.” He says. “You’re zipcuffed to that chair.”

I remember the restrains then. It takes me a second to dislocate my thumb. I bury the movement and the pain and quickly slip my hands free.

They don’t react, they didn’t see it. I speak my next words softly, carefully, as I put my hands in front of me. “Not anymore.”

They dont't have time to react as I shoot to my feet. My hand swings the chair around from underneath me and into boss’s face, knocking the knife out of his hand. Weapons clack in the background and I raise the chair to block some of the gunfire, the rest zoom around me.

The chair splinters and I’m just holding the legs in closed fists now. _Eskrima._ I put the closest guy between me and the rest of them.

The boss unholsters his gun and I smack a leg hard against his elbow. The gun fires into the floor and I drive the other leg by the broken side towards his face -- depositing it forcefully straight into his eye.

The man staggers back in death throes, barely maintaining his footing. I move to him and grab under his arms – Push forward in the hail of bullets to get closer to the other gunmen.

When within a few feet I hurl the other leg straight at the face of the second man, he recoils from the strike and I’m straight on him. The first leg is ripped from the skull of the now dead boss and I shove it into the chest of the second gunman.

There’s a small struggle, choking breaths before he drops lifelessly to the ground. It’s suddenly quiet, apart from a set of running footsteps in the dark.

I move over to Tommy and check his vitals. He’s breathing, heart rate is steady. I return to the hunt.

I explodes out of the warehouse at a quick pace, the cobwebs fall and I’m back to myself again. I round a corner with a twist and I’m in a metal stairwell.

He’s racing down. The boots hammer on the metal frame, and the whole staircase shakes. The Galil fires up and near me. I hug the stairwell walls and avoid the bullets.

There are three flights down to the ground, I’m down near the bottom with a few jumps. My mind flashes to the Island, a predator navigating the thick trees. 

His footsteps no longer ring out below on the steel, I take the time to navigate through a window and onto a catwalk the level above him. He runs into a labyrinth of stacked pallets and shipping containers, I run silently along the tops

The final gunman is sprinting now, gunfire rings out again and it’s  -- sent everywhere. Bullets ricochet with screeches off of  metal – pallets turn in to dust as they crumble around him...

He stops in a corner. He’s ran himself into a dead end. He looks around him like a captured animal, cornered, frightened... desperate. He turns to see me, but he can’t. I’m the monster in the darkness.

He fires again.  Sprays a dozen or so more bullets, just to be safe, just in case one could hit me.

Then -ClIck.  The magazine is empty. 

Panic sets in and I watch -  he hurriedly fumbles with his pocket for a new clip.

I don’t let him. I drop down behind him. He swings wildly but it’s beyond wide. I twist his arm til I feel it go limp, then I deliver a punch to the base of his spine, just enough to hit a nerve cluster, temporarily disable his muscles.

He drops but I’ve still got hold of him. I lean him back and his head is under my arm. His breathing is ragged, he’s terrified.

I think about what I’m going to do before there’s a flash, an image of a body on the street, a kid who will grow up without a parent.

“You shot that boy’s father...”

He can barely speak, he tries to struggle but he’s limp and useless. There’s a deep desperation in his voice as he scrambles his mind for reasons he should leave. “It was an accident -- I didn’t mean to -- You don’t have to do this... “

“Yes I do.” There’s a groan underneath me as I put pressure down on him. There’s a gurgle and then a loud snap.

“No one can know my secret.”  


	4. A new arrival to Starling City

I’m looking at an image. An etched figure wears a hood over his head that obscures his face. It’s a police sketch. Held shakily by a man whose boiling thoughts’ I can almost hear.

“That’s your story?” He says with incredulity. “You were abducted, brought to that warehouse, where you were interrogated, threatened and tortured when -suddenly -- a guy wearing a green hood flew in and single-handedly took them out?” His eyes are a piercing and hard blue, like hers were, no flickers of a past joy I used to see him exhibit remain. He places the paper on the coffee table and taps it with a jabbing finger at every point he mentions.

I study him for a moment, look into his face and wonder what I could have missed, whether he suspects anything. I list in my mind the things that could have tipped them off: prints on the metal framings or on wood, sweat or blood on the kidnappers or anywhere else in the old warehouse complex.

At the edges of his face, in the corners of his mouth there is no smug knowing look, no gotcha smile, nothing but anger. Justifiable anger.

“Yes, sir.” I reply nonchalantly, if they found anything I would already be in handcuffs. I’m lucky the SCPD has barely enough funds to cover their squad cars.

He moves the piece to a dark folder and then leans forward towards me. “Your luck just never seems to run out, does it?” The words are spoken quietly and there’s an edge to his voice that illustrates our shared history. He stares at me with those eyes, her eyes, and I’m lost in them as I meet his gaze. I think about her and something in me begins to crumble as I prepare a reply.

I’m interrupted by Mom’s voice. It’s clinical and cold. “Were you able to identify the men?”

The detective sighs as he answers her in a dismissive tone. “Scrubbed identities. Untraceable weapons. These guys were pros who probably figured you’d pay a King’s ransom to get your boy back. Or a Queen’s ransom, as it were.” He smiles for a moment at his wit and then the smile is gone as quickly as it appears. He looks back to me with a scowl. “A parent would do anything to keep their child safe. “

Mom’s there again, jumping to my defense. She’s not a woman who is used to having her family spoken to in such a manner. “I don’t find your tone appropriate, Detective. Or, for that matter, your involvement in this case given the... personal circumstances.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, dismisses her instantly. “Take it up with the Chief-of-D’s, then. In the meantime, case lands on my desk, and I work it till it’s done. Unless you can pull some strings like you Queen’s always do and I’m back to the station filling out reports on gangland crossfires in inner-city tenements and not kidnapping jobs gone wrong with hooded freaks and rich one-percenters.”

Walter stands then, holds out a hand towards the door signalling the meeting is over.

“If Oliver thinks of anything else, he’ll get in touch. Thank you, gentlemen, for coming, but we have other matters to attend to.” The words are formal and clipped.

Taking the hint, Detective Lance drags himself off the sofa and bundles the files under his arms. Him and his partner move to leave before he turns to me.

“Welcome home.” 

* * *

My lawyer pushes a small stack of papers across the dining table. They’re double stacked white and cream so that writing on one will create a copy on the next. I palm them towards me and glance over the cover.

His nervous manner makes him seem younger than his years. He awkwardly resettles his tie, pausing briefly to carefully select his words.

“Death-in-absentia usually occurs automatically after seven years. However, in cases of imminent peril -- a boating accident, for example-- the court will grant a petitioner’s request to declare the missing person deceased a lot sooner.”

There’s another pause in his words as he passes a golden pen across to me.

“We’ll... delve into the quagmire of Queen Consolidated’s ownership position in light of your disappearance after the court date, it shouldn’t be a long wait once I get the motions filed.”

Walter moves from the head of the table then, up until he’s beside the lawyer.

“Oliver, I hope that you understand, in light of you and your father’s... absence, it was necessary to bring the company under the control of the board. Your mother and I thought…”

“It’s fine. For all everyone knew I was gone.”

I grab the pen which is smooth and cool in my fingers and sign in the marked areas. Then I shuffle the papers together and pass them back.

He takes them from my hand then stacks them into a legal folder as he stands to leave. “Congratulations. You’re alive….” He pauses and his face scrunches at the edges before he mumbles a correction: “Again.”

He leaves and Mom stands then too, she smiles at Walter and looks like a woman who’s got her way.

* * *

I take the opportunity to slip away as Mom and Walter talk together. I make my way to my room and lock the door behind me. The bedsheets are bundled were bundled in the hard corner by the farthest window where I slept. I throw them back over the top of the mattress then bend down to reach underneath the bed.

My hands palm around in the darkness til I can feel the metal and wood. I drag the box out from underneath and look at the mandarin script on the front.

The lock opens with a twist after I dial in the numbers. I reach inside until I feel something small wrapped tightly in rough fabric.

* * *

I see Thea on her bed in the crack of the door before I knock. She’s laid down and taps her phone with Olympic calibre speed as she swings her legs off the bed’s edge.

In her mouth she plays with something white and thin.

I knock, and she moves quickly. Shuffles to the edge of the bed. The white object is gone when she moves back.

“Come in.”

I gently push the door and enter. Her face lights up at the sight of me, a smile is etched on her lips as she moves to greet me.

“Ollie –"

“No one’s called me that in a while.” I reply as I move forwards, past her desk and to the middle of the room where we meet. There’s a word that dances on my tongue as she brings me into a hug. I wait a beat before saying it. “Speedy.”

I can feel her face grimace into my shoulder. She withdraws with a look. “Ugh. Worst nickname ever.”

“Always chasing after me as a kid, running through the hallways and down the stairs, I thought it fit pretty well.” She puts her arms behind her back as I speak, sways slightly as memories flush into our minds. I contrast the memories to the person in front of me, then my mind moves the white object to other things. _She’s not a kid anymore._

She looks like she’s about to say something when I remember why I’m here and put my finger up to motion for silence. “Close your eyes,” I tell her.

She gives me a confused look but does what I said. I take the opportunity to move behind her and I glance around the room as I do so.

I put my hand into my pocket and withdraw the object from the fabric. It’s cool and smooth in my hands but for the etchings. I untangle the black rope from around it and place it around her neck, letting it droop before tying it off in a loose knot.

Her hands move to her neck and I can tell she’s already opened her eyes. “No way!” she says as she turns, “You did not come back from a deserted island with a souvenir...”

She smiles widely as she twists it in her hand. I remember another woman who wore it before I push the thought from my mind.

“It’s a Hozen. In Buddhism, it symbolizes reconnecting.” I tell her. “I kept it, hoping someday it would reconnect me with you.” I point towards her with the last word.

“Did they have a Hallmark on the Island too?” she asks, “Because that’s one of the cheesiest lines I’ve heard.”

I shrug my shoulders in slight embarrassment. Then I think about what I’ve got planned. “Speaking of lines, I’m going to need a favor. I’m going out with some… friends soon and I’ll need you to cover with Mom.”

She crosses her arms and her countenance hardens slightly. “Are you sure it’s wise to be out so soon after what happened?” She asks.

My hand goes to the back of my neck. I don’t feel comfortable lying to her but it’s a necessity if I want to accomplish my mission. “I know she won’t think it’s wise, but I’ve got to get out of here for a minute, I feel like I’m being suffocated.”

“So, you want me to lie?”

“What’s one small lie on top of another?” I ask. She looks confused. “When did you start smoking?

She hesitates for a moment before she replies. “How did you know?”

“Cigarette papers by the bed, ashtray near the window, small mark on your finger where it’s discoloured.” I don’t mention what else I see, the small smudge of fine powder on her desk, the empty pill bottle underneath a few tissues in the trashcan. _I’ll need to keep an eye out._

“I don’t do it often. Mostly when my friends do.”

I wonder what Dad would say if he knew, how he would have reacted. “Just make sure you’re only doing things you want to do, don’t give into pressure from your friends, your stronger than that.”

“This coming from the guy who peed on the cop car for a dare?” She replies wryly.

“I have a lot of regrets, Thea. I just want to make sure you don’t have too many.” My mind moves to a girl with dirty blond hair, a thick wave that took her away. “We’ll hang out at the weekend if you’re free. I want to talk with you, catch up.”

Her hands are on her hips now, she moves her upper body forward slightly as she speaks. “You don’t have to threaten me or buy my support, Ollie.”

“Thank you.” I tell her in a sing-song manner, slowly over exaggerating my words as I back towards the door.

* * *

“...here is Adam Hunt at the ribbon cutting ceremony for the waterfront re-gentrification project which is expected to net Hunt upwards of eighty million…”

I listen to the television as the news comes up. The name Hunt is up again, Starling City news organisations are covering little else. I’ve done some of my own homework too.

I’m packing some things for my mission. I stack them roughly into a duffle bag, grab a small black bag from the case and pocket it. I arranged a postal service to deliver some other things into pick-up spots in the Glades. If you use certain payment methods and deliver to certain places you can organise some quick shipping for almost anything you need without leaving much of a trace.

I can hear someone coming down the hallway, so I throw some linens on to the top of the bag. The door opens and soft footsteps move along my carpet.

“You are different.” It’s spoken in a foreign accent. I turn and see Raisa standing with a small tray of food in her hands. “Not like you to do your laundry.”

I smile as I approach her. “I missed you, Raisa.”

“No kitchen on the island?” She jests.

“No friends, either.” I take the food from her hand and look into her eyes. She blushes slightly in response.

I put the tray on the desk near the TV and turn back to Raisa. “Do I really seem different?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “No. You’re still a good boy.”

Thoughts of mugshots and paparazzi coverage float to me. “I think we both know I wasn’t. Too much money, not enough responsibility.”

She moves a hand to my cheek and my stubble is rough against it. “But a good heart.” 

I smile wide. Her words are touching, moving. If I want to fulfil my father’s legacy, I’ll need to exceed everyone’s expectation of me. “I hope so. I want to be the person you always thought I was, Raisa.”

Raisa offers a knowing smile.

* * *

It’s later. I’m carrying the duffle bag down the stairs and I’m ready to leave.

At the bottom of the staircase is a large dark-skinned man in a black suit. He looks up to me and is still and upright as if standing to attention.

“Mrs. Queen he says loudly when I’m halfway down the stairs.” _Busted._

Mom turns the corner and into the lobby where she beckons me down. Thea is just behind her and standing in the doorway, she has a smug smile on her face. I look into her eyes and shake my head slightly. _Traitor._

Mother puts my hand in hers when I’m on the ground floor. “Oliver, Thea told me you were going out. I want you to meet, John Diggle. He’ll be... accompanying you.”

This’ll hurt my plans, I think. I try to smile it off as I look at Diggle and back to Mom: “I don’t need a babysitter.”

She pats the back of my hand and turns herself towards me slightly. She looks at me with pleading eyes. Around their edges are a great deal of pain. “No. This is something I need, Oliver.”

I hesitate, and the duffle feels heavy in my hand. 

I pass it to Diggle and he shoulders it, surprised by its weight. I gesture to the door as I say my goodbyes.

* * *

John Diggle turns the corner down fifth avenue as he drives through the city. The automatic town car is more extravagant than anything John has ever worked with during his time in security. He looks into his mirror and sees Queen sat still in the backseat as they cruise. 

Oliver looks right back into the mirror and studies Diggle’s eyes, John feels something invasive in the stare, it’s not normal.

“What should I call you?” Oliver asks with a smile.

The driver doesn’t skip a beat before replying, he’s used to the initial small-talk with clients.

“Diggle’s good. Dig, if you want.”

The next usual question comes quicker than it normally does: “You’re ex-military?”

“Yes, sir.” He replies, the words are rehearsed after a whole lifetime of calling other men Sir. He looks back to the street as he speaks again: “Army Rangers, 105th Airborne out of Kandahar, retired. Been in the private sector a little over four years now.”

He pauses for a second before he continues, feels it’s better to give Mr. Queen ‘the talk’ now and save himself some hassle in the long run. “I don’t want there to be any confusion, Mr. Queen. My ability to keep you from harm will outweigh your comfort or desires. Do we have an agreement?” 

There’s no answer. Diggle waits for a few seconds for a reply, but none comes. “Sir?” Diggle asks before he turns around.

The seat is empty. Nobody is in the back of the car.

“What the--?” Diggle slams on the breaks and they react harshly.

He jumps out of the car and opens the back door to look inside, then he looks around frantically. But there is no sign of Oliver in the empty street.

_“Shit.”_

* * *

I move through the backroom of the laundromat. The hoodie is up and over my head, a baseball cap sits underneath and covers the top of my face.

Hanging beads cascade over my body as I move. The store is in Little Odessa, a shabbier place but not one ofthe worst areas of the Glades. Immigrants and Eastern-European dockworkers occupy most of the stores around here, and the back alleys is where the shadier members of the community deal drugs and guns. That’s not what I’m here for though. Not yet.

I move past a stack of shelves lined with caviar, canned fish, and other Russian delicacies to the back where there’s a thick security door. I go through it and enter the dark room.

An older man sits behind a table, his tattoos visible where his sleeves are rolled up. Symbols that tell a deep story to those who know them. I get to the table and he wracks his thick knuckles against the top impatiently.

I don’t sit down in the chair. I just put my hand in my pocket and throw the black bag on the table.

He looks at me with a jeweller’s loupe in his eye. Then he spills the items out of the bag and they clatter into a padded tray. The diamonds glitter from the dim light overhead. 

The Georgian moves a lamp to point it towards them and picks one up with a pair of tweezers to examine it. Once done he looks up at me and smiles, revealing a mouth of golden teeth.

_Step one: The laundered money._

* * *

The burned-out tenement stinks of vermin and filth. It’s across the way from Dad’s old metalworks. The inside is stripped of anything useful to anybody. I conceal my face deeper into the cap which I pull lower down.

In my hand is a shabby looking briefcase. I look around the foyer of the building and wait until I hear footsteps approach.

The realtor approaches. He’s by the doorway shifty and nervous. The tie around his neck is pulled loose and ragged and his jacket looks like it’s been patched up lazily in places.

He speaks, his voice is hesitant but still slick, like a character from Glengarry Glenn Ross. “Not that I’m looking to talk anyone out of a deal in this economy.” He says as he steps towards me slightly. “It’s just this building doesn’t need a renovation so much as a detonation.”

I deepen my voice till it’s almost a growl. “I’m not interested in the building.” I tell him. “I understand the property runs right over the old subway lines?”

“Yeah, but if you’re worried about trains whizzing around, don’t. Those lines have been abandoned for decades. Ownership moved from the city after the recession to us, my boss thought he was getting a steal until he realised he had to sell off thousands of square feet of underground real-estate that’s often flooded and is likely asbestos ridden.” He moves his hand to his tie and alters it slightly before he speaks again: “The whole thing is likely gonna cost you tens of millions of dollars if you want to renovate.”

I stop for a second and think things through before I nod. He looks immensely relieved, he must be desperate because he nods too.

I open the briefcase and throw it onto the ground near him. Bundles of cash slosh around inside but nothing drops out.

The Realtor looks incredibly uneasy and his eyes shoot open like he can’t believe them. Or his luck.

“Will you accept cash?” I ask.

_Step two: The perfect location_

* * *

SMASH.

SMASH.

SMASH.

I wield the sledgehammer against the cellar floor again and again. It breaks down and cracks under my strikes.

SMASH.

A bead of sweat drips down my bare back as I hold for a moment, I take a deep breath before I prepare again.

SMASH. The floor crumbles down and passed the basement into the pitch darkness below.

I move to a set of cases I picked up and grab a flare from within, strike it and watch the green sparks flow like water before I drop it gently into the pit.

It falls down and down until there’s a clatter as it illuminates the floor around it.

I stop and hook up cables to the metal bannisters out of the cellar, push them down the hole until they fall. I shine a flashlight down into the depth before I slide down the rope quickly. It’s almost a jump into the abandoned subway tunnel beneath. 

The landing is easy, I make it perfectly on both feet. Then I raise the light and survey the blackness. The tracks stretch on into the dark and there is not a sound in either direction. It reminds me so much of the caves that dotted the shores of the Island, the quiet environment, it’s one of the few moments of silence I’ve had since I got back. I let everything envelop me for a while before I move to the edge of the complex and find a subway wall.

On the wall is a grimy billboard with an aged font. “ARROWLINE -- GET THERE FAST”. I look up at it with a smile. _This'll work._

* * *

It takes me a while to get all the boxes to the tenement building, to get them down into the darkness below and then make the move underneath the steelworks.

It’s not so dark anymore though, I hooked up a generator to some lights pinned to the walls and near the ceiling. The boxes are all piled neatly around a temporary set-up.

The final piece is the duffle-bag with items from the old munitions box, I throw it onto a foldout work table and open it slowly. The linens are shifted, and I take the pieces out. They’re smooth and cold in my hands, the metal and plastic are so familiar. It feels like meeting an old friend as I reassemble it.

Once I’m done I take a moment to admire it, the weapon that’s been with me all of this time. I bend into it, feel the draw weight in my shoulder and over my arm. I test the tension of the cables against my fingers.

The next few hours are spent near the sparks of a metal grinder, with the dark and smooth shafts I cut down to size.

I send some messages to Mom and the other to let them know I’m okay. Not to call the cops.

Once satisfied, I reach below the bench and feel plastic packaging...

_Step three: Equipment_

* * *

There’s a mechanical whirring as the machine turns on. I take a deep breath as I prepare.

POP. POP. POP.

The tennis balls shoot in volleys into the air and I watch them move til the first is half-way to the ground. Then I bend the bow. THWIKT! THWIKT! THWIKT! 

The machine clicks empty when I’m done firing, the thing whirs rhymical until I switch it off. I look across the ground and to the wall which is littered with arrow-impaled tennis balls.

I never missed. But I’m not as fast as I know I can be. I can do better.

I move to the boxes and begin to unpack, I need to know how quick I’ll be with the gear on.

The first set is Khaki-colored body armor, thick in important parts but with enough space in-between to keep me nimble and quick. I’ll have to make some adjustments, of course, but I have time to do that and other things before it’s time. I move to the computer screen and do some more research.

_Step four: Intelligence_

* * *

Tommy Merlyn sits across from Laurel in a restaurant booth near her office. It’s the only free time she gets off work, something she repeatedly reminds Tommy he doesn’t have to deal with.

Tommy stirs the hot chocolate in front of him. The rain outside has made the air cool and wet and the heat of the drink is a decent relief. He thinks about Oliver, the four phone calls he’s received Moira asking for her son’s whereabouts.

He looks up from his drink with a thoughtful glance, stares at the woman opposite him, looks like a man who’s trying to solve a puzzle.

“He’s back, but he’s... different.”

She shakes her head slightly as she replies, not an ounce of empathy in her voice. “The sympathy card, really? I was expecting the ‘We were just kidnapped’ angle. That actually might’ve worked.”

“I’m serious.” Tommy says with an uncharacteristic plea. “He was out there for five years. By himself. God knows what happened to him. God knows what he had to become. To survive. To --”

Laurel interrupts him. “You know, you sound like a movie trailer?”

He doesn’t respond directly. He tries to see things from her point of view, imagine the hate and the anger, she wasn’t like this before he got back. He raises his eyebrows considerately. “Listen, if you’re worried he’ll find out about us...”

She laughs.

“We barely qualified as an ‘us’ Tommy. Ollie’s ‘death’ just gave us something in common.”

He’s hurt. She sees it and regrets the words immediately. He tries to change the subject. “Just try to talk to him, please.” Then he fixes her with a look. The look. 

He watches until she starts to crack – Just like she usually does.

“I’m on a clock. I’ve got a boss who seems to think Adam Hunt’s worth busting only if we can do it on schedule. Hunt’s a thief, he’s only worse because he steals more and it’s all technically legal.”

Tommy leans back, smiling. “Dinah Laurel Lance. Always trying to save the world.”

“Yeah, well, if I don’t try to save the world, who will?

* * *

Adam Hunt moves into the rotund man’s face. It’s sweaty and old, having to be so close repulses him vehemently.

Eric Grant moves back a little until he’s against the wall. Then he can move no further, and Hunt is almost pressed against him,

“I’m sorry, but my people are determined on this –” His words are fearful, and his face is pink and creased when he’s interrupted. 

“I don’t care about your ‘people’. You don’t call off the dogs at CNRI, and I’m coming after you, Mr. Grant.” He jabs a finger into the man’s chest with every point: “After your house, after your law license, your kids’ college funds... I will shred your life and I’ll do it because I can. I’ll turn you into a cautionary tale.”

Grant nods impotently and whimpers. Hunt stares at him for a second in disgusts before he screams in his face. “What’re you still doing here?”

The man waddles out of Hunt’s office and he watches him leave with a disgusted sneer.

* * *

Hunt and his bodyguards reach the elevator, he’s as angry as he was earlier. The bodyguards flank him, the larger men take a great deal of room in the small area.

Hunt presses the button marked L for Lobby and waits impatiently for the doors to close.

The three of them stand there silently as they wait to reach their destination. Both of the bigger men know Mr. Hunt doesn’t allow any talking so they obey his wishes dutifully rather than risk the consequences.

Hunt is thinking about washing his hands, he worries about what touching that slob could have done for his hygiene. He turns his hands over and studies his fingernails for dirt when the elevator suddenly shudders to an abrupt stop.

The men look at each other confused and Hunt slams his hand into the button again below the LED screen. The elevator moves again and he watches their progress down.

4... 3... 2... L... P1...

Hunt reacts like he reacts to almost anything, with anger. “Piece’a crap. Passed the lobby...” He slams his fist into the break but nothing happens, the thing keeps moving at the same pace. Then he tries every other button but nothing changes and they keep moving down.

... P2... P3... P4

The elevator doors slowly open into the underground parking garage. It’s dark bar the light from within the lift and an overhanging light in the garage itself.

Hunt’s men peer out but everything is silent and still. 

Hunt himself looks anxious, the silence and stillness make him uneasy and he presses the buttons rapidly. But there is no response. 

“Check it out.” He says as he tucks his shirt in.

The guards step out into the dimly lit structure. Then -- THWIKT! Something strikes the ceiling light and it smashes into a dusting of glass shards. 

The glass tube sparks out and the whole room is enveloped in darkness save for green safety lights around the edges. 

One of the guards picks up the object that shattered the light. It’s sharp in his hands, he raises it up slightly to catch the light and get a better look. “What the--?”

The arrow shimmers enough for Hunt to see it from where he’s standing. Both guards reach for their guns on instinct.

The furthest away guard’s gun is in his suit-jacket he’s almost got it out when -THWIKT! An arrow strikes him – and there’s a sickening crunch as it pins his hand to his chest.

The guard screams and drops to his knees, as the other guard moves forward out of the elevator with his gun drawn.

He fires wildly into the shadows. But there’s nothing but the sound of bullets ricocheting and car windows smashing with the impact. Finally, the gun clicks empty. The guard looks over at his colleague who must have passed out because there is nothing now but silence. 

“You missed.” The words wring out but the voice is a growl, unnatural, inhuman.

The remaining guard turns to Hunt who sees the absolute terror on his face. The second bodyguard turns and tries to run back towards the elevator -THWIKT! THWIKT! Arrows crunch into him now and he’s dragged harshly out into the blackness and out of sight.

Hunt looks into the darkness to try to make out any figures. He moves to the back of the elevator and frantically presses all the buttons when he sees him.

A man in dark body armor green so dark it’s virtually black in the light. A bow is at the ready by his side and his face obscured by shadow and hood.

“What do you want? Please. I’ve got money. I’ve got lots of money.” Hunt pleads to the figure.

“I know. And I know how you got it.” He draws an arrow from his quiver and knocks it in his bow. Hunt moves until he’s against the wall. “You have failed this city.”

The man loses his arrow with another THWICKT! And Hunt closes his eyes ready for an impact.

But it doesn’t come. He opens his eyes again slowly, like a child watching a scary movie, then he sees it. Embedded next to his head and into the wall is an arrow, connected to it is a card with a number on it.

“Forty million dollars. To this account. By 10 PM Friday night.”

Hunt is suddenly slightly more confident. It’s a thief, not some creature of the night. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll take it.” The man replies. “And you won’t like how.” Then the man turns to leave.

Hunt is braver when an enemy’s back is turned. He shouts into the darkness impotently. “If I see you again, you’re dead.”

Then there’s another screeching sound through the air and Hunt feels a sharp pain in his arm. He inspects it and sees his suit jacket sleeve is sliced clean open and there’s a thin cut across his skin.

Hunt wipes the trail of blood from his arm and stands still. Seething and afraid...

**Author's Note:**

> As always, leave any feedback you want in the comments, I appreciate it all whether positive or negative. Feel free to subscribe, bookmark, kudos or check my other fics out if you like this one. I'm down for user suggestions on plot as well, so pitch away.
> 
> I'm also writing a Game of Thrones pulp detective AU which can be found on my profile.


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